17. Dominic
Dominic
T wo days ago, she was in my bed, writhing under me, breathless, letting go in a way I’ve never seen before.
It should’ve meant something. It did mean something.
But the next night, I come home late, and she’s back in her room.
The door closed. Like nothing happened. Like we didn’t just tear each other apart and put ourselves back together again.
Now there’s this low, humming pressure in my chest. Like I’m walking blindfolded toward a drop I can’t see.
Worse, I keep thinking Lena’s slipping away.
Quietly. Without warning. When this week ends—the one the Mayor asked her to wait before exposing Anton Rinaldi—something’s going to blow up.
I can feel it. And when it does, no matter what I do… I might lose her.
Life with Lena is an emotional rollercoaster with no seatbelt.
That night, she was all in. Present. Raw.
On the worst day of my year, the day that marks the greatest loss of my life, Axel, she gave herself to me.
Completely. No defenses. No hesitation. But no promises, either.
Now I’m stuck somewhere between wanting more and not knowing if she’ll ever let me get there.
Tonight, I texted her and asked her out.
A real date. I married her without ever taking her out.
So yeah, it was overdue. We skipped right past girlfriend, fiancée, everything in between and now I’m trying to catch up.
She went from the girl who hated me, to the woman who barely tolerated me, to—somehow—my wife.
All in a heartbeat. Or several brutal, chest-pounding ones.
The kind that nearly wrecked me before I finally got to hold her for one full night.
“What kind of date?” she asked.
The we’re-in-love kind, I wanted to say.
But we haven’t said anything real to each other.
No declarations. No I love you’s. Not even I like you’s.
Only this quiet, unspoken agreement between us to keep things simple.
Manageable. A partnership. That’s the word we settled on.
Not love. Not us. Just terms. I said a lot that night.
Honest things. Raw things. But not love.
Never that word. Neither of us has said it.
And we definitely don’t talk about that night. But it’s there, between us, under our skin. We can’t undo it. We can’t go back to before.
Our bodies remember too much now. She remembers every damn place my hands touched her.
I see it in the way she looks at me when she thinks I’m not watching.
Like I burned something into her, and she doesn’t know what to do with it.
Sometimes, she even blushes. So yeah, we don’t talk about it.
But we feel it. And maybe that’s worse. Still, we’re stuck in this loop.
Like we hit reset every morning, land back at square one, and smile politely: Hi.
We’re married. So… now what the fuck are we supposed to do?
But when she asked what kind of date, I couldn’t give her the real answer. So I just said, “Let me surprise you.”
I wanted it to feel real, like a first date. So I left and let her have the apartment for a few hours. Now I get to come back and pick her up, like we’re meeting for the first time.
“Do you think I’m dressed okay for wherever you’re taking me? You’re wearing jeans. I’d rather not change,” Lena says as I walk into the apartment.
I swallow hard. And yeah, I look her in the eyes, barely, because everything below her neck is a fucking trap.
That black dress she’s wearing looks like it’s painted on.
The fabric slides over her shoulders and dips just low enough to make me forget how to blink.
It hugs her chest like it was made for her—every curve—and drapes down her waist with that effortless kind of sex appeal that’s way more dangerous than anything tight or short.
Except it’s also short. Her legs, those goddamn legs, are bare halfway up her thighs.
And I know that if she sat down in front of me right now, my hand would go exactly where it did that night.
Straight up, right to the place that branded itself into my palm.
I drag in a breath. Look up, idiot . But then I catch her neck.
Bare, soft, exposed beneath that perfectly messy bun, and I’m gone all over again.
Her scent reaches me next — soft, warm, and unmistakably hers.
That perfume I can never name but always want on my sheets.
Tonight, I’m screwed. And judging by that barely-there smirk, she knows exactly what she’s doing.
“Depends what you’re trying to achieve with that dress, Mrs. Monti,” I say, keeping my voice low. “If it were up to me, that thing wouldn’t make it out the front door.”
She smiles, just a hint. “I’ll take that as a compliment. And confirmation I’m cleared for this mystery date you pulled out of your hat tonight.”
I don’t take the bait. I shake my head, smiling as I open the door. “Your carriage awaits, princess.”
I asked for a driver tonight. Not because the restaurant’s far, but because I wanted it to feel like a real date. And yeah, maybe also because this way, I get to hold her on the way there.
As we cross the hotel lobby, a few guys turn their heads.
I don’t say a word, but my hand finds the small of her back.
And it stays there. Once we’re in the car, I pull her close in the back seat.
The ride’s barely ten minutes, but long enough to pull her close, to feel her body lean into mine like she belongs there.
Her warmth crawls up my arm, sinks into my chest, then lower.
A slow burn that curls into me and won’t ease up.
But not enough to take the edge off. It only makes me crave her more.
She leans in easily, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
And every breath she takes, triggers that ache all over again.
The restaurant is small and cozy, with big glass windows that open out to a secluded cove, not far from the marina, close to the hotel.
It’s early evening, and I can hear the waves lapping against the shore.
Slow, steady, hypnotic. Everything’s too perfect.
The view, the light, the way she looks. No wonder I feel like a goddamn teenager, one breath away from losing it over his first real crush.
“It’s empty,” Lena says as we step inside, her eyes scanning the place. “Does this place not get much business? It should. This spot’s perfect.”
She smiles a little, but there’s clear surprise in her voice. We sit at a low table near the water, half-sunk into a cushy sofa scattered with pillows. She sinks into them, running a hand through her hair. Almost relaxed, but her eyes stay on me.
“I booked it just for us,” I say, watching her expression shift.
She narrows her eyes slightly. “Tell me you didn’t kick out actual people with real dinner plans.”
“They didn’t get kicked out,” I say. “I bribed them with a free meal on another night. Win-win.”
“So… you bought them off.”
“I negotiated like a civilized man.”
She lets out a small laugh, shaking her head. “Still sounds like you ruined some poor couple’s anniversary.”
“Only temporarily. Their new reservation comes with champagne and a dessert tray. They’ll be fine.”
She gives me that look again, the one that says you’re impossible, but with a smile tugging at her mouth.
“So tell me, Mr. Monti, what exactly was your plan with this private dinner?” She lounges a little deeper, not breaking eye contact.
“I wanted time with my wife. Just us. No distractions, no crowd, no escape.”
Her smile falters, almost invisibly. She holds my gaze at first, clear and unflinching—then her eyes shift, slower this time. She’s here with me, yes, but not all the way in.
“I’ve noticed you really like saying my wife ,” she murmurs, amused, taking a slow sip of the wine the waiter poured moments ago. “You repeat it a lot. It throws me off a bit, I’ll admit.”
I lean forward, one elbow on the table. “Where are we right now, Lena? In our agreement, I mean.”
She sets her glass down, smoothing the fabric of her dress over her thighs. It’s automatic. She takes a breath, then cuts in, gently but firm.
“I don’t want to talk contracts tonight.”
I catch that. No hesitation, just a quiet boundary. So I nod. I get it.
“You’re right. After the night we had, I think we’re past all that.”
She tilts her head slightly. Her voice is softer this time, more cautious.
“We’re past it?”
“I think so,” I answer, watching her.
“We’re married. We made love. Feels like we’re operating outside the contract now, don’t you think?”
She reaches out, touches my cheek. Light, but steady. Her eyes soften.
“Dominic... I’ll keep every promise I made. And what you’re doing for me… it matters more than you know. But if you’re hoping for more… I can’t promise you that. Not yet. I’m not there.”
Her palm is warm against my face, and I let it stay. The silence between us isn’t cold. “Maybe we needed each other more than we realized when we signed that contract,” she says, voice lower now. “And I’ve learned more about you than I expected to.”
“You think you still would’ve signed, knowing everything you do now?”
She shakes her head. “No, that’s not it. I just… I’m trying to connect some dots. And I’m failing at it.”
“Then don’t explain it. Say it however it comes”
She pulls her hand back slowly and looks away. Out the window, toward the dark water. When she turns back, her eyes are clear, but her voice trembles.
“That night I realized what you carry. Some things happen to us. Things we never asked for, never deserved… but they leave scars, anyway. And when that weight feels like too much, whenever it hits you again, I’ll be there. No questions. You’ll have me.”
I reach for her hand and grip it. She doesn’t pull away.